Chapter Three
Mara
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I can’t focus.
My mind keeps circling back to the twisted gift he left for me, looping around it until I feel sick.
Every time I try to think about something else, the image drags me back under.
And the feeling of being watched never leaves.
It clings to me, follows me, presses against the back of my neck whenever I step outside.
I catch glimpses of him everywhere now, a shape slipping between strangers on the pavement, a reflection in a shop window that vanishes the second I turn my head, a shadow lingering behind me on my walk to work, then again on my way home.
He is always there, always watching, always close enough that I can feel the air shift.
The terror should have swallowed me whole by now, but it didn’t.
Somewhere along the way it changed, softened, twisted into something I don’t want to examine too closely.
I don’t know when it happened. Maybe it was the night he stepped between me and danger without hesitation.
Maybe it was the way he looked at me, not with cruelty, but with something fierce and possessive that made my pulse stutter.
Maybe it was the fact that he has had so many chances to hurt me and never took a single one.
Whatever the reason, the fear melted into something else.
Something that feels dangerously close to safety.
He won’t hurt me. If he meant to, he would have already.
He had so many opportunities. So many moments where I was alone, distracted, vulnerable.
He could have stepped out of the shadows at any time.
But he didn’t. And that truth sits heavy in my chest, confusing and warm and terrifying all at once.
My phone buzzes in my hand. I ignore it for a moment, too wrapped up in the mess of my own thoughts. When I finally look down, the screen lights up and my blood turns to ice.
Unknown Number - You didn’t call the police after I left that gift for you, why?
My breath catches. Before I can even process it, another message appears.
Is there something that draws you to me, Bunny?
My heart slams against my ribs so hard it hurts. A third message arrives, slow and deliberate, as if he knows I’m reading every word with shaking hands.
I noticed a shift, when my gaze stopped striking terror into that little heart of yours. When watching you became a safety net.
Is that because you realized you were safe? That you finally saw this for what it is? Protection.
The room feels smaller. My pulse roars in my ears. My fingers tremble around the phone. He knows. He knows exactly how my fear changed. He knows exactly how close I feel him. He knows exactly what I didn’t say out loud.
My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop the phone. I type anyway.
What do you want from me? And why do you hide? I should report you. The police would find you.
The message sends before I can second-guess it. My pulse is hammering in my throat, my breath uneven. The screen lights up again almost instantly, and I swear I can feel the smirk behind the words.
But you won’t, will you?
My stomach twists. This is a terrible idea. A stupid, reckless, adrenaline-fueled idea. But my thumb moves before my brain catches up, hitting the little green call button in the corner.
The dial tone hits my ear and panic floods me so fast I almost hang up. My heart is pounding, my fingers trembling, my breath coming too shallow. I don’t know what I’m expecting. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know why I’m doing it.
He answers on the first ring.
“Brave, aren’t you?”
His voice is smooth, warm, confident. Too confident. It slides through the speaker and straight down my spine, smoke and whiskey, something dangerous wrapped in silk. I swallow hard.
“What the hell do you want with me? Are you going to kill me? Is this some stupid horror movie where the killer stalks the girl and chops her into little pieces?” My voice betrays me, shaky and uneven, nothing like the sarcastic front I’m trying to put on.
“Kill you?” He laughs softly, a low sound that curls around my ribs. “Now where’s the fun in that. No, Bunny. I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to keep you.”
A shudder rolls down my back before I can stop it. I hate that he hears it in my silence. I hate that he knows exactly what his voice does to me. I hate that part of me reacts at all.
“In your fucking dreams, asshole.” I hang up before he can say anything else.
The silence that follows is deafening. My hand is still wrapped around the phone, knuckles white, breath shaking.
Keep me. The words echo in my head, looping, twisting, sinking their claws in.
Is he delusional?
Or am I?
Kade
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She called me an asshole.
I lean my head back against the chair, and for a second I actually have to close my eyes because the smile pulling at my mouth is ridiculous.
Embarrassing. Infuriating. I can feel it stretching wider, completely out of my control.
Why the hell am I close to kicking my feet like some lovesick teenager who just got noticed by his crush.
She didn’t text. She called.
She chose to hear my voice, to let me hear hers. Shaky, furious, terrified, brave. God, that combination does something to me I don’t even want to name.
She could have blocked the number. She could have thrown the phone across the room. She could have run to the police the second she saw my messages.
But she didn’t.
Her voice is still echoing in my head, that sharp little “In your fucking dreams” that she spat at me before hanging up. She thinks it was defiance, strength. She has no idea how much it thrilled me. How much it fed the thing inside me that has been starving for her attention.
She hung up on me, and I’m still smiling.
Because she didn’t call to beg, to scream, to threaten me.
She called because she needed to hear me. Because she wanted answers. Because she wanted me to give them to her.
And she has no idea what that means.
No idea what she just invited in.
No idea how close she is to the edge of something she won’t be able to climb back from.
And now I can’t stop replaying it. Her breath. Her fear. Her anger. Her voice cracking on the word kill, even though she already knew the answer.
She called.
And that means she’s mine in ways she hasn’t even realized yet.
I type slowly, deliberately, letting the anticipation settle in my chest before I hit send.
Unknown Number: You sound beautiful when you’re scared.
I watch the typing bubble appear on her end for a second, then vanish. She doesn’t know what to say. Good. I keep going.
And you called me. Remember that.
A pause. I let it stretch, let her feel the weight of it, let her wonder whether she made a mistake or a choice.
Then the next message.
You can hang up on me, Bunny. You can swear at me. You can pretend you hate every second of this.
My pulse kicks up, a slow, satisfied thrum. She’ll read that line twice. Maybe three times. She’ll hate that it’s true.
One more message, softer, more dangerous for it.
You’re not running.
You’re not hiding.
You’re talking to me.
So tell me… Do you really want me gone?
I don’t send anything else. I don’t need to.
Even if she tells me she doesn’t want me, that won’t stop me, she will be mine.
That was the moment I decided, no more hiding in the shadows, I’ll let her see me, all of me.
Lets see how defiant she is then.
Mara
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I stare at the phone for what feels like hours, waiting for something, anything, some sign of what he’s going to do next.
The tension is unbearable, a tight coil in my chest that refuses to loosen.
My thoughts keep looping, tripping over themselves.
Will he push me further? Will I finally crumble and call the police?
And how the hell would I even explain this?
Yes officer, someone has been stalking me for weeks. Yes, he left a vial of teeth in my kitchen. No, I didn’t report him because he made me feel safe.
I cringe at the thought. Pathetic. Completely pathetic.
My gaze drifts to the vial on the coffee table and my stomach twists. I can’t look at it without feeling sick. I grab my phone and type before I can talk myself out of it.
Can you come and pick up these fucking teeth?
They’re giving me nightmares.
Next time you decide to do a little breaking and entering, take them with you.
I knock back the rest of my bourbon and hit send. The regret is instant and brutal. I just invited him in, I gave him permission, opened the door wider instead of slamming it shut.
Suddenly I’m hyper aware of the room around me, The single front door, the fire escape. I’d probably break my neck if I tried to use it.
The windows that don’t lock properly.
The shadows in the corners that feel too deep.
I run my hands down my face, pacing back and forth, my mind spiraling through every possible outcome.
I invited a potential murderer into my home.
Told him to come back. Told him to take something.
What if that isn’t all he takes? What if this is the moment he decides to step out of the shadows?
What if he’s no different from every other asshole who’s tried to control me, hurt me, use me?
My head starts to swim, the room tilting in a slow, nauseating spiral. I push myself upright, stumbling toward the bedroom, but something feels wrong. Off. My limbs feel heavy, my thoughts sluggish, my balance shot to hell. A sickening dread curls in my stomach.
Did this bastard drug me?
The idea hits so fast I almost choke on it. My pulse spikes, panic clawing up my throat. I sit on the edge of the bed, gripping the sheets as the floor tilts again. My vision blurs. My heart hammers.
Then it clicks.
The painkillers. The ones I took an hour ago for the migraine that’s been splitting my skull the Morphine I’ve had stashed since my surgery. Morphine. And whiskey.
A brilliant combination. I’m fucked.